


even he'd like to end it

by V_e_s_a_n_u_s



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Jokes, Batcave, Batman References, Batman: Year One, Blood and Injury, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Is a Good Bro, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crime Fighting, Friendship, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 21:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15715662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_e_s_a_n_u_s/pseuds/V_e_s_a_n_u_s
Summary: Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham City, after years of being away and assumed dead. He hasn't returned because he missed his city, though. He's here to save it. But can you save something that doesn't want to be saved?Or the adventures of Batman retold, with some familiar faces and some new ones - there is definitely more to come, if you'll stick around! :)





	1. the first of many

It was a typical night in Gotham City, a night like any other.

Lightning shot across the dark night sky, brightening the cold concrete for a second as the rain pounded against it like bullets. The street was plunged into blackness once more but the skies rumbled angrily. That was when he chose to strike.

Noah opened his switchblade and prepared to step out of the alleyway. Three months ago, he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing this. Three months ago, when he was still living in a home with a family he thought loved him, when he was blind enough to think they cared. But he said the wrong thing, told them about a part of him he shouldn’t have, and they tossed him out like he was nothing. And in those three months, he’d learned some harsh truths. The main one being:

The world isn’t fair.

A man walked quickly by the alleyway, _his_ alleyway, with his coat collar turned up and his shoulders hunched to protect his face and neck from the biting wind and the unrelenting rain. Noah reached out and grabbed the man’s exposed collar, swinging him around and into the wall next to him. The man yelped in surprise, arms flailing around.

“Wallet. Watch. Now.” Noah snarled into the man’s face, pressing the knife against his neck.

“P-Please!” The man cried, eyes frantic and his whole form was trembling. “I got a family, do-don’t hurt me!”

“I won’t hurt you,” he growled. “Unless you _make_ me hurt you. So,” he kept one hand pinning the man to the wall but his hand with the blade retracted so the man would have room to move. “Wallet and watch.”

The man was crying by now, gasping for breath through shuddering teeth as he hyperventilated. He took his shaking hands from where they were flung against the wall and slowly brought them to his pockets. He shook as he frantically searched his coat pockets for his wallet, whimpering as he couldn’t find it in the first pocket he checked.

Noah hissed in frustration. He’d never had to _use_ the knife before, but the way this was going, he was thinking he’d have to beat some sense into the blubbering mess before him for wasting his god damned time.

It was as that dark thought crossed the young man’s mind that Noah was shoved aside, knife scratching the man’s abdomen as he fell. For a brief moment, he thought the man had, in an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy, tried to escape. But that was before he saw the shadow standing above him.

It was just a man. It _had_ to be. How could it be anything else?

But that shadow, outlined by the flashing sky, was _huge_. It had _wings_. Its eyes were glowing and he could see its sharp teeth shining in the dark.

Noah screamed.

“Get away from me! W-what are you?” he shouted, scrabbling back on the floor, knife forgotten and eyes wide and trembling. “Get a-away!”

Long, clawed hands reached out from the darkness and Noah screeched again as they gripped his worn coat jacket. His hands fumbled at the talons in his coat but the vice-grip they had on him was unbelievably strong. He was lifted clean off the floor and brought close to the monster’s snarling face.

“Your worst nightmare.”

Noah screeched again as a fist collided with his face and he was dropped on the wet concrete in a shuddering pile. He clutched his broken nose with his trembling hands as he looked at the demon before him.

“I-I don’t, I never hurt anybody! I swear!” he cried into the pavement. “Please don’t kill me!”

“You’re right,” that deep, growling voice said from above him. “You won’t hurt anybody.”

Noah pressed his face to the ground as he curled up and cried pitifully into the concrete, and the silhouette turned to the man he’d been robbing, who was just as terrified. A leathery hand pushed aside part of his coat and unveiled the shallow knife wound on his chest.

For one horrifying moment, it crossed the man’s mind that this horrifying creature might be a vampire, attracted by the blood dribbling down his stomach. “P-please-” he begged.

“You’ll live.” It said shortly.

They both heard the wail of sirens in the distance and simultaneously the men thanked the lord that they were saved in time, both flinching when they heard an almost metallic hiss and a distant thud. Suddenly, the creature was flying up into the rooftops above them, silhouetted as lightning darted across the sky.

Almost as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

A car skidded to a halt not far from them and two police officers leapt out of it before either of the men could do anything more. Noah raised his head shakily and was dazzled by the bright red and blue in front of him.

“Gotham Police!” A female voice shouted as they approached.

“We got an anonymous tip of an attempted mugging,” the other yelled over the rain to the two men. “Is everything alright?”

“He… He-” the bleeding man raised bloodied fingertips so that they shone bright red in their torchlight. They understood immediately, seeing the discarded switchblade just inches from the huddled form on the floor.

“Put your hands behind your head and stand slowly!” The woman shouted, directing her voice to Noah who was still shaking from fear and as the cold rain seeped through his thin coat. The other police officer was radioing for medical assistance as he brought the injured man under a nearby shop front’s awning for shelter, asking if he was okay.

Noah was going to run. He wasn’t going to let them catch him, not like _this_. But as he raised his head to make his escape, he caught sight of a shadow on the buildings above him, wings raised and fluttering in the wind. He let out a terrified yelp and his hands shot into the air.

“D-don’t hurt me!” His voice shattered as his stood on shaking legs and turned around with his hands on his head.

The officer immediately saw the broken nose and the blood gushing down the man’s deathly-white face. “What happ- Christ, man, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!” The woman turned him around again, clicking on his handcuffs with more care having seen how visibly terrified the man was.

“N-not a g-ghost-” Noah stammered, as he was turned around and pushed towards the patrol car. “A _demon_!” he said, “A _monster_!”

Before the officer could even scoff at the notion, the injured man yelled in a just as frightened voice. “I-It wasn’t a monster!” He shouted. “Not a m-monster!

The officer turned to look at the man but saw something move across the rooftops above her and she glanced up, and saw nothing.

“It was a bat!” He shouted, clearly delirious, the officer told herself, from the blood loss. “A gigantic bat!”


	2. regret it tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same night, different fight.  
> (heh, that rhymed. Hope y'all like XD)

Bruce ran across the rooftops with his heart thundering in his ears, the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream like fire. He did it. _He did it._

He made a difference.

He made a difference to not one, but _two_ lives. The near-victim had escaped with his money, and possibly, his life. The mugger… well, Bruce was sure he’d shook enough fear into the man to last a lifetime. He wouldn’t be mugging anyone anytime soon.

The victim was injured. He’d cursed himself for that. It was careless. Stupid. He should have looked, checked that the blade was clean away from him before striking. He saw the knife was drawn away from the man’s neck before he made a move, but it was nothing but _irresponsible_ for him not to have checked.

_He should have checked._

But the man would live, as he’d said. The wound was shallow, the blade had barely nicked the skin through the thick coat he wore. It did bleed a lot, from its location, and it must have hurt. But he’d be fine.

For a first try, Bruce considered it a success. Room for improvement, but a small victory, nonetheless, and it reinforced what he already knew.

Gotham wasn’t beyond saving.

He stayed to watch the officers arrive, and leapt across to the opposite roof when he heard they had the situation under control. He heard the shout from three rooftops away.

“It was a bat!”

He smiled grimly to himself. So the symbol was recognisable enough. Enough for people to recognise it. Enough for people to _fear_ it. To fear _him._

He’d be lying if the symbol itself didn’t strike fear into his own heart. It reminded him of a time that he’d much rather forget but was haunted to remember. The memories that came to him in the dark, when he slept, when it was quiet. It was what he ran from before.

But it was also what brought him back.

He would save the city his parents had fought so hard to build. He swore it.

He couldn’t say they’d approve of his methods. But he’d just proven: it _worked_. It was the only way it _would_ work. He had to take the law into his own hands. He had to break the law to uphold it.

He stopped at the corner of one of the buildings and looked out across the city. The East End District was bad at the best at times. Staring at it from a rooftop in the midst of a storm in the middle of the night, it was worse. Bruce could almost see the corruption from this vantage point; he could almost see the corrosion of everything this city stood for.

Actually, he could _literally_ see it.

He grappled over to an adjacent building, the gadget in his hand letting out a loud hiss as it fired. Below him, he watched as a woman stumbled down some stairs as she ran, frantically looking over her shoulder at her hooded pursuer. She had almost reached the bottom of the stairs when another figure stepped out of the darkness and appeared in front of her. She screamed, looking around with a terrified gaze before deciding that jumping the railing was better than enduring whatever the men had in store from her.

“Hey, pretty lady, where ya goin’?” One of them sneered, “We just wanna have some fu-”

The words were snatched from his mouth as Bruce leapt from the building, gliding down and connecting his foot solidly with the man’s face. The man crumpled to the floor under his weight, and Bruce span around to meet the other assailant, who was barreling down the stairs towards him.

“Hey!” He shouted, reaching into his coat jacket, pulling out a knife. “Get off ‘im!”

The man swung the knife down, the silver shining wickedly in the fluorescent street lights. Bruce knocked the hand away, following it up with a swift jab to the man’s side. He stumbled for a bit on the stairs, before jumping down next to the masked man, his hood falling down as he did.

“Walk away, friend,” he snarled, “That bitch ain’t worth dyin’ for.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Bruce said back, lashing out with a quick blow to the head, which the man dodged with some difficulty. “But she is.”

The man lunged forward, and slashed sideways with the knife. Bruce dodged again, using the man’s momentum against him and sending him stumbling into the staircase where he tripped and fell. His face collided with a crunch onto the concrete and he groaned in pain for a moment.

He stood slowly, swaying as he did. He wiped his mouth and glared at the masked man when his hand came away bloodied. “What makes that whore special?” He growled with a lisp around cracked teeth. “She your fuck buddy or somethin’?”

Bruce cracked his neck slowly. It seemed that this guy wasn’t going to give up easily. That was fine by him. He needed the practice.

He raised his fists again, and the man ran at him with the knife raised, changing his position last minute and he brought the blade down swiftly. Bruce attempted to sidestep, avoiding the bulk of the blade, but the sharp edge sliced across his upper arm. He gritted his teeth as the pain lanced through him, growling as he brought the same elbow down on the man’s head and knocking him down and sending him tumbling again.

Bruce grabbed his arm and pressed into the cut, hissing at the pain as he watched the man right himself. He turned to face him again, knife slick with his blood. He eyed the blade with a snide grin and then looked back at Bruce, all teeth and dark eyes.

Bruce leapt, rolling on the ground and using the force of it to launch his feet into the man’s body. He was startled, the kick winding him and he fell over, but Bruce was already standing, looming over him at his feet.

“Stop!” A voice came from behind him, and Bruce glanced over his shoulder. He saw the man he’d knocked to the floor earlier standing there with a steadily bruising eye and a raised pistol. His stance was wrong and the man was swaying slightly, and Bruce wasn’t sure the man could have hit him in his right mind, but he didn’t want to take the chance. “Get away from him!”

Bruce turned fully around, cape flapping out behind him as he did, and stepped away from the man slowly. The man with the raised gun watched his every move, so anxious that Bruce knew that his reactions would be slowed.

He was right.

Bruce tossed the throwing knife with precision, instantly jumping out of the way. The man flinched as Bruce moved, but the moment he could react he pulled the trigger. The throwing knife collided with his fist, the blade lodging itself at an angle between the bones of his hand, which knocked his aim down. The bullet fired, missing the intended target of Bruce’s chest and instead grazing past his thigh. His teeth were ground so hard together in pain he thought they might break but the bullet barely hit him, he had to keep moving.

He took a quick step, and as the gunman was yelling out as the pain in his hand registered, Bruce swept his legs out from under him. He crouched over him and punched him hard in the face, knocking him out with a crack.

He turned, eyes cold as they met the other still conscious assailant. He was wheezing, clutching his stomach from where he’d been kicked. The man met Bruce’s eyes in fear as the masked man walked towards him. Thunder growled in the sky and the man shuddered before him.

“Hey, hey, enough, alright? You win!” He bargained, scrabbling to sit upright against the wall. ”Stop, p-please!”

“Would you have stopped for that girl?”

The man gawked and stammered his way around a non-committal answer that quickly raised in pitch as Bruce walked towards him, finishing with, “What are you g-going to do with me?”

“I’m not going to do anything. _You’re_ going to turn you and your friend here into the police. _Tonight_.” He grabbed the man by the scruff of his oversized hoodie and hauled him up against the wall behind him, shoes dangling a few feet off of the floor so Bruce could look him in the eye. “And if I find out you don’t…” he leaned in closer, “I _will_ find you.”

He let the man drop to the floor and stepped away. He took both the knife that had been tossed aside when the man fell and the gun from where it was laying on the pavement. Bruce hoped to see that he’d instilled enough fear into the man that he’d go himself, but if not, the weapons were insurance to ensure justice would be done. The weapons would find themselves in the police department whether they turned themselves in or not, meaning the men would be in the hands of the police and off to prison one way or another.

Bruce glanced around, and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Probably ran off during the fight. Smart. She’d be safe, for now at least.

He got his grappling hook out of his belt and fired it at one of the rooftops above him, hearing the tell-tale _clunk_ as its claw dug deep into the brick. He tugged on the wire lightly to ensure it would hold, and it sprang back with ease.

“Wait!” The man called from behind him, and Bruce didn’t turn but he did pause. “What are you?”

Bruce smiled and answered, before he flew up to the rooftops and disappeared into the Gotham skyline and further into the night.

**“I’m Batman.”**


	3. he came back (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred has spent so many years alone, and now finally Bruce is back in his life. Now he only needs to keep him there.  
> (Or Brucie comes back from his night of fighting but made a mistake of keeping fighting when he shouldn't have. Whoopsie, we'll get around to that sooner or later: enjoy! XD)

Alfred was woken by the shrill ringing of his alarm the next morning, and the first thing he did was worry. After so many years of waking up in an empty house, with only general cleaning and nothing much else to do, he was used to waking up in this manner. But last night… last night, Bruce went out. Alfred himself barely slept a wink the whole night. Before, it was different.

Before, he could have been in danger and Alfred would never have known. He didn’t know where he was, what was happening. He could never have done anything.

But last night, he knew _exactly_ where he was. What he was doing. But he had no way to contact him. What if something happened? He was killed? Killed here, in Gotham, like his parents, and Alfred did _nothing?_

Bruce said he’d let him know when he was home. The fact that he slept the night, restless though it was, meant either one of two things.

One was that he’d simply forgotten. Bruce was smart; attentive. Alfred knew that wasn’t the case.

The other… was that he hadn’t come home at all.

He got out of bed and dressed quickly, pulling on his long tailcoat and fixing his cuffs as he left his room. He made his way through the manor with haste, not stopping by the kitchen as he had become used to this past week, instead heading straight to the master bedroom.

“Master Bruce?” he called, knocking. When there was no response he knocked again, before pushing the large door open and glancing around the room. The bedroom was vast, lavishly furnished with objects both modern and antique, but empty. He took a few steps in, looking further into the corners of the room and calling out again.

His brow furrowed with worry and he turned on his heel and sped down the corridors. He stopped at the study, the library, then turning to head downstairs to check one of the living rooms. He stopped at the doorway, looking into the empty room with disdain. The embers were still glowing softly in the fireplace but other than that, the room was void of life.

Alfred didn’t move for a moment, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Louder than it ever had before. In that deafening moment of silence, he had a moment of clarity.

He walked over to the fireplace. The advantage of living in such a large, old manor, is that it was commissioned by a very paranoid man almost seven generations ago. Darius Wayne and his brother planned extensively every nook and cranny of the mansion Alfred now stood in, putting all sorts of secrets into the brickwork. _Including_ , Alfred thought, pressing a knoll in the centre of the intricate woodwork, _this secret passageway_. One of many throughout the manor.

The fireplace creaked as it moved backwards, exposing a narrow staircase that led below the house, and Alfred headed in without a look back. Just over a week ago, Bruce had returned, came back asking about the passages and although Alfred had never been in them himself, he knew the manor itself like the back of his hand, and Thomas had trusted him like a brother. They discovered the caves beneath the manor together, and that was when Bruce had told him of his plans.

At first, Alfred had tried to talk him out of it. Who wouldn’t?

Taking on the scum of Gotham? _Alone?_ It was idiotic at best, _insane_ at worst.

But Bruce always was stubborn, and his years away seemed to strengthen his resolve. He wasn’t going to give it up, this is what he wanted to do; what he was _going_ to do. There was no point in fighting it. But if he was going out to get himself _killed_ , with some sort of death wish-

Alfred couldn’t think like that. Not now.

The stairwell was dank and dark but Alfred hurried down the slippery steps with relative ease until the fireplace slid back into place behind him and the light of the fire disappeared. Now the only light was from a faraway source glistened softly on the wetness of the rocks, illuminating very little but dazzling with its intensity in the dim.

“Master Bruce?” He shouted into the dark, and his own voice echoed around the cavern, yelling back with its own taunt. He listened to the echo for one still moment, and it was followed by silence.

And then, quietly, like a whisper of a whisper in the blackness, he heard a pained groan.

“Master Bruce!” Alfred yelled, running in the direction of the noise, and slowly a shadow made itself visible in the dark, and he ran towards it. He knelt down beside the masked man. “Dear God…” he muttered, “Come on, sir, I can’t see anything down here.”

He put his arm under him and lifted him up, slinging his arm over his shoulder as he limped him out of the cave. Alfred readjusted him on his arm as he half-dragged Bruce up the stairs, pausing to let him catch his breath when he stumbled.

“Christ, Master Bruce,” Alfred panted half-way up, “You put on weight when you were away.”

Bruce let out a pained laugh that devolved into a shuddering cough, and Alfred’s small smile faltered. They powered on with only a few more pauses, and finally reached the top. Pulling a chain to his right, Alfred watched as the fireplace moved back once more, and he dragged his charge through and laid him down carefully on the sofa there, ignoring the closing of the passage behind him as it groaned its way back into position.

“Alright, let’s see…” he murmured, checking him over with a trained eye that hadn’t been tested in… well, quite a while. His suit was damp with blood, all on his right side. He found a cut on his upper arm, and a larger, deeper wound on his thigh. “What on _earth_ did you get up to last night?”

Bruce rearranged himself on the sofa with his good arm, and Alfred glanced up at him and saw how pale his face was. His butler scanned the man’s eyes before standing up and going to find the first aid kit. He’d had dark circles under his eyes, and was so deathly white he could see the blood vessels beneath his almost translucent skin. The wounds he had were bad, the one on his leg might need stitches because of the length, but neither were particularly deep. Bruce shouldn’t have been able to lose that much blood from the relatively minor injuries. Unless…

Unless he sustained them and kept fighting.

No… no. If Bruce was injured, he would come back as soon as he could, and get patched up. He may be stubborn but he was smart. He knew his limits. His own survival was his top priority. Wasn’t it?

Alfred rushed back from the kitchen with the kit in one hand and a glass of water in the other, placing them down on the coffee table. He was going to start with the larger cut, on his leg, but he couldn’t get to it through the man’s new “outfit”.

“Okay then, Master Bruce, I’m going to have to get you out of these pyjamas if I’m going to dress either of these,” Bruce laughed faintly in response and made to sit up. “Let me help you with that.”

They worked the top part off first, the stretchy material getting caught as Alfred tried not to jostle the man’s arm, but Bruce just grit his teeth and yanked it off his shoulder as his butler looked on disapprovingly. He wiggled his leggings off with a grimace, and then Alfred set to work.

“Press that into your arm,” he said, shoving him a tea towel he’d grabbed, “While I work on this one.”

Bruce coughed to clear a dry throat, and Alfred gave him the glass as well, which he took gratefully. “Give me that too. I can do this one.” He said weakly, nodding to some of the antiseptic on the table, seeming to regain some semblance of strength now he wasn’t lying cold in a dark cave.

Alfred considered protesting, but it’d keep him busy and not complaining (not that he was anyhow) and, like he said, the man was stubborn. He poured some of the antiseptic onto a cloth and handed it to him, then repeated the process for himself. He started to dab the wound on his thigh with a practised precision. This wasn’t something he’d had to do for a long time, over two, maybe three, decades, but now, with a closer look at the wound on his leg, he recognised the unforgettable shape.

“Master Bruce, this is a bullet wound,” he said, matter-of-factly with a raised eyebrow, finishing cleaning it and turning back to the first aid kit. The blood had mostly clotted by now, but from the still-damp skin around the wound, he could tell that hadn’t been for long. He picked up and opened a new pack of butterfly stitches.

“That’s because I was shot, Alfred,” he said, finishing his own sterilising and barely catching the bandage and dressing his butler threw his way. He put the bandage between his teeth, leant over with effort to put the soiled cloth on the table before shifting back and turning to the cut on his arm. “And stabbed.”

Alfred barely controlled his eye-roll and put the next steri-strip on with a bit more force than necessary and Bruce gave him a sharp look but with a small grin. “Respectfully, sir, I thought you said you were ready.”

“I am.”

“Ready to get both shot and stabbed, it seems,” Alfred retorted, finishing the strips and covering the wound. He knew Bruce would only get it dirty and he didn’t want it to get infected, then it would be even _more_ of a bother. “Not quite as prepared to take on the criminals of Gotham.”

“I was careless,” Bruce replied, pressing the gauze into the wound and beginning to wrap the bandage around it with some difficulty. “It won’t happen again.”

“And if it does, sir?” Alfred finished and took the end of the bandage off of Bruce and wrapped it himself, a damn sight better than Bruce had been, anyway.

Bruce sighed. He watched Alfred finish dressing the wound with attentive eyes as he considered his answer. “I need more protection. Some sort of armour.”

“I’m not sure Mr Fox specialises in suits of armour, sir, and it’d be too heavy to work with your new gadgets,” he said, standing up and wincing as his knees popped and clicked. “Although he might be interested in branching out.”

Bruce barked out a laugh, sitting more upright with tired limbs as Alfred picked up his ruined costume. “I’ll go see him tomorrow; see if he can draw something up. Something light but…”

“Bullet-proof, sir?” Alfred suggested putting his arm through the bullet hole in the man’s leggings.

“Maybe.”

“So would you see these cleaned and patched up? Or thrown out?”

Bruce eyed the costume slowly. “Cleaned,” He said after a few moments, “After all, we don’t know if Lucius can get me my chainmail, yet.”

Alfred smiled. “Very good, sir.” He turned to leave with the costume over one arm and most of the first aid kit balanced on top.

“Oh, and Alfred?” He called, and his butler paused and turned around, one hand on the door.

“Yes, Master Bruce?”

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like it! Leave kudos or a comment if you have the time! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧  
> I have some ideas if you guys want more, and I'm open to ideas too!! Let me know! XD


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